Make them laugh, make them cry, and hack to laughter. What do

Mary Pickford, the “America’s Sweetheart” of silent film and one of the first great queens of cinema, once declared: *“*Make them laugh, make them cry, and hack to laughter. What do people go to the theatre for? An emotional exercise. I am a servant of the people. I have never forgotten that.” In this saying she unveiled the true mission of the storyteller and the performer — not self-glory, not hollow spectacle, but service to the human heart. She knew that art is not merely entertainment, but a sacred exchange: the artist gives feeling, and the audience, in turn, finds themselves awakened, healed, renewed.

The ancients spoke of the same purpose. Aristotle, in his Poetics, described tragedy as the great purifier of the soul, cleansing it through pity and fear, and bringing about catharsis. The theatre was never just diversion; it was a gymnasium of the emotions, a place where men and women could test their spirits against laughter and sorrow alike. Mary Pickford’s words are an echo of this timeless wisdom. To make them laugh is to give joy; to make them cry is to stir compassion; to return them again to laughter is to remind them that life, despite its pain, is still worth embracing.

History offers us living examples of this truth. In the dark days of World War II, Charlie Chaplin released The Great Dictator. The world was drowning in cruelty and despair, yet he dared to make the people laugh at tyranny, to weep at its cruelty, and to laugh again at its absurdity. That film was more than comedy; it was an act of service, an “emotional exercise” that gave the people courage to endure. Chaplin, like Pickford, understood that the artist’s highest calling is not self-expression alone, but service to the weary souls of mankind.

Pickford also reminds us of humility. “I am a servant of the people. I have never forgotten that.” How often do those gifted with fame forget this? They believe themselves above the audience, when in truth they exist only because of the audience. The performer is a bridge, not a throne. Pickford, at the height of her power, never forgot that her art was for others. In her words, we hear the voice of one who saw her fame not as possession, but as responsibility.

But her words also bear a lesson for all of life. For is not every soul, in some way, a performer before others? The teacher before the student, the parent before the child, the leader before the community — each of us has an audience, each of us holds the power to shape the feelings of those around us. To serve others is not to bow in weakness, but to rise in greatness. To give laughter where there is gloom, compassion where there is sorrow, and hope where there is despair — this is the noblest service.

Practical action flows from this wisdom. If you would follow Pickford’s example, do not seek only your own pleasure in the work you do. Ask yourself: What does this give to others? Does it lift them? Does it strengthen them? Does it bring them light? Let your words, your deeds, your craft, be an emotional exercise for those who meet you — one that leaves them more alive, more awake, more human than before.

So remember, O children of tomorrow: the artist’s role, and indeed the role of every soul, is to serve. Make them laugh, make them cry, and make them live again. Let your life itself become a theatre of compassion and courage, and you will not merely entertain, but transform. In this way, you too will be a servant of the people, and your legacy will be written not in monuments of stone, but in the hearts of those whose spirits you have lifted.